


hold your head high

by sumaru



Series: it's probably about sports [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood, M/M, Romantic Face Punching, Sexual Content, Violence, Vomiting (Mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4089580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/pseuds/sumaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some oikage written over the summer.</p><p>1. a complicated feeling.<br/>2. punch-up, 1.<br/>3. punch-up, 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "nothing left to leave behind"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're trying to work their way through this. It's not always successful.
> 
> \--
> 
> Prompt:
> 
> "Coming in unannounced, drag my nails on the tile  
> I just followed your scent, you can just follow my smile  
> All of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine  
> Cutting me to the bone, nothing left to leave behind
> 
> You ought to keep me concealed just like I was a weapon  
> I didn't come for a fight but I will fight till the end…
> 
> And I love the way you hurt me  
> It's irresistible, yeah"
> 
> \- "Irresistable," Fall Out Boy

The streets are filled with the evening crowd, a noisy push from all sides, but when Kageyama sees him, the easy elegance of the figure walking in his direction, everything seems to fall away to white noise and nothingness. It’s that particular smile, just for him, a crack in Oikawa’s otherwise flawless charm, a smile that’s smug and petty and beautiful. It’s a smile that’s looking for a fight.

 

Oikawa doesn’t have to say a word, but Kageyama follows him anyway.

 

Later he’ll tell himself that it was the hands, the long elegant fingers, strong and sure and everything he’s ever admired, bringing him breathless, in his hair and in his mouth, pressed against his wrist hard enough to bruise. He’ll tell himself that everything he wants to learn, he wants to learn from Oikawa, and that the press of Oikawa’s mouth, a kiss with too much teeth, is what he was looking for every evening he stayed at practice late, working through a frustration he couldn’t pin down. He’ll tell himself it’s the lilt in the way Oikawa says his name.

 

(Not always mocking, not always cruel. Kageyama tells himself this.)

 

They aren’t children anymore, boys playing at games of envy and pride. So when Kageyama breathes Oikawa’s name into the sheets, hands clutching at them as he tries to relax around the third finger, slick with lube, that Oikawa has slipped inside him, Kageyama wants to tell himself that this is good enough. “Oikawa-san,” he tries to say again, words wrapped around a moan, because when has anything ever been good enough between them, but Oikawa just uses the other hand to push Kageyama’s face into the bed, presses his fingers inside Kageyama so completely that he ruts desperately against the mattress. Oikawa is still dressed in shirt and slacks, but Oikawa never fucks him with anything but his fingers; he once said that he hated getting his hair mussed up, but Kageyama still isn’t sure if it that was a joke or not.

 

Afterward, when Kageyama lies spent in the mess of sheets and spit and come on Oikawa’s bed, he tries again. “Oikawa-san,” he starts, a hand reaching for Oikawa who sits on the edge of the bed, always just a little out of reach.

 

“Tobio, don’t you ever learn. Are you always this useless and stupid.” Oikawa flips the sheets over Kageyama’s head, muffling him, and laughs at the indignant squawk that Kageyama makes. But when Kageyama eventually pulls the sheets off his head, he finds that Oikawa has settled in alongside him, lying on his back and flipping through his phone; Oikawa’s tongue sticks out a little as he reads his emails. Kageyama doesn’t say anything, but Oikawa tells him to shut up one more time, just in case.

 

 


	2. "all I do is win, win, win no matter what"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fight club AU, lowercase...... (shrugs)
> 
> \--
> 
> Prompt:
> 
> "All I do is win, win, win no matter what  
> got money on my mind I can never get enough  
> and every time I step up in the building  
> everybody hands go up  
> and they stay there"
> 
> \- "All I Do is Win," DJ Khaled feat. T-Pain, Ludacris, Snoop Dogg and Rick Ross

Kageyama leans into the strike on his jaw, leans right into it like it’s a first kiss and a blessing.

 

The only warning he got was a whiff of air, an almost sweet reprieve in the heavy fog of old sweat and coppery blood that hangs over the haphazard ring marked out on the concrete floor. But it's more than enough, he’s a natural at this, victory the only acceptable outcome for a born genius, and his body falls into the easy rhythm of the fight like this is all it has ever known.

 

He can feel more than hear the break of bone as Oikawa’s fist connects, and Kageyama knows he’s one step closer to the win.

 

(Lesser opponents would have already crowed their triumph over Oikawa, but Oikawa does not break easily even when broken; this is how lesser opponents have lost to the Grand King, and this is why they are less.)

 

(Oikawa is often injured, injured constantly. He wears each angry red stitch on his pretty face with a smile, and _oh_ , how they love him for it.)

 

Kageyama throws his hands up, guarding close to the face. A bruise is already blooming on his cheek, dark and beautiful and aching deep, and he knows Oikawa will cruelly press teeth and tongue to it later to remind him of it. There is delight writ large across Oikawa's face, the twist of a smile that has him tilting his chin up prettily, but Oikawa’s eyes have gone flat and dark and they look down at him like he’s not even worth this fight, like he’s worth absolutely nothing at all. It nails him to where he’s standing and in that split second, Kageyama can read Oikawa’s every intent in the tension across his shoulders, the elegant shift of his hip and the fall of his feet, the flex of his fingers broken and useless.

 

Kageyama is going to be the best one day, he’s going to rule the fights every night like a monster and a tyrant; but tonight, it’s still too early yet.

 

"Your hand is broken--" Kageyama hears himself saying stupidly, right as Oikawa gets him under his guard and Kageyama can hear the awful grind of bone as the fist connects with his stomach, first, and then when he doubles over he feels the other hand come up like a kiss on the side of his mouth. And then it’s all too bright lights, the people ringed around them screaming Oikawa’s victory, and Kageyama is on his hands and knees throwing up bile and fresh blood onto the dirty concrete floor.

 

When Kageyama finally looks up, mouth still wet, dazed by crowd noise and a loss that stings, that tastes of the blood coppery warm in his mouth, all he sees is Oikawa’s silhouette, the bright outline of lights that frame Oikawa’s height and the easy elegance of it. Pain runs throughout Kageyama’s entire body as he tries to push himself to his feet, controls the ache of it through the count of his breathing huffed shallow through the nose and fluttering tired in his chest, and it’s only when he catches one deep and still enough that he can hear the exact words of the crowd, the manic chanting of _win,_ the screams of _more._

 

“Until the last man standing, Tobio-chan.”

 

There’s hands on his face, almost gentle, and then in his hair, painful, and Oikawa is hauling him back to his feet for another round.

 

(Oikawa fights like he fucks, with blood in his mouth, like he doesn’t want to know what it means to lose.)

 

 


	3. "hey young blood"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight club 2.0 for Mattie and Miyu.
> 
> Please look at their beautiful, inspiring remixes for the original here:
> 
> http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/6833.html?thread=2363313#cmt2363313  
> http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/6833.html?thread=2487729#cmt2487729
> 
> \--
> 
> Prompt:
> 
> "Hey young blood  
> Doesn't it feel like our time is running out?  
> I'm gonna change you like a remix  
> Then I'll raise you like a phoenix  
> Wearing our vintage misery  
> No, I think it looked a little better on me"
> 
> \- "The Phoenix," Fall Out Boy

Kageyama rules the ring like a tyrant that night.

 

Chin tucked in low, letting his feet lead fast and natural; there’s a trickle of red that drips from his nose and into the bared white of his teeth, and the pulse of it is like a fever heat pounding in his brain, keeps the rhythm steady in his throws, left, left, a quick right that pulls a sharp crack from Oikawa’s ribs, and each time he tastes fresh salt and copper and spit in his mouth, he tastes it sweet with the haze of victory.

 

 _This is what Oikawa always tastes like_ , a half thought somewhere in between the fleeting seconds as he missteps and takes Oikawa’s fist across the face, still not quite fast enough to keep pace with Oikawa, Oikawa who is so quick and clever on his feet, and Kageyama is eating it full in the mouth, the pained grunt choked off wet by a fresh burst of blood as the punch whips his head back, an awful crack in the way his body tries to compensate.

 

It’s only a tooth, and Kageyama spits it out, a spray of blood hitting the white and mint of Oikawa’s jersey, and Oikawa laughs, tuts at him from behind the elegant guard of his hands lifted high, “Ahh, that’s so nasty, Tobio. Are you going to clean that up for me after?"

 

Oikawa's idle chatter was the first lesson that Kageyama had ever learned.

 

Oikawa is holding onto the vintage of his glory with both hands held up, a false prayer in the pale lofting light of the concrete ring that casts a halo around the flip of his auburn hair, and he’s like a king always crowned as he ducks under Kageyama’s reach. "Don’t think I’m going to just _give_ this to you”, mouth tilted into a smirk, because he knows the instinctive dance of Kageyama’s feet, knows because he’s followed it for so long, Kageyama a shadow who quickly outgrew his own.

 

(“Oikawa-san, please teach me,” as Oikawa flicks sweat and flyaway hair out of his face, dust in the air settling on the swaying punching bag. There’s so much trust and awe in Kageyama’s voice, still a boy’s voice not quite big enough to fill the breadth of his shoulders, and something in Oikawa twists dark and unpleasant, wants to remake everything about him.)

 

(“Oikawa-san, please teach me,” and Oikawa ignore him, but he does anyway, his hands a playful arc that Kageyama tracks diligently, ready, till they land a fast one-two blow to his belly that bends him over, retching into the packed dirt, and Oikawa laughs as Kageyama tears up from the bile that stings his mouth, doesn’t let him clean it until much later that evening.)

 

(When Kageyama starts moving like him, in the dark against his cock, in the ring chasing after his mouth; Oikawa knows that he’s just running out the clock now.)

 

A calculated right jab darts quick into the hairline fracture of Kageyama's guard, the easy elegance of it widening Kageyama’s eyes just enough to make Oikawa smile, as Kageyama's prize, the strong steady fingers, the natural genius hands, take three of Oikawa's knuckles with the crunch of bone giving way; but the face Kageyama makes is not a boy’s grimace anymore, it’s the focus of the fight, and Oikawa knows it’s over.

 

He’s not sure if it’s bone fragment that slices his tongue when Kageyama gets him with a cross, _of course he would, turning the momentum around, he did learn from me afterall, the only thing he was ever good at_ , but Oikawa finally tastes blood in his mouth, and as his back hits the floor in a starbust of black behind his eyes, he’s glad that it’s as much Kageyama’s blood as his own.

 

 

 

 

 

The floor of the locker room is filthy with old blood and dirt, and Oikawa takes delight in pressing Kageyama’s back into the mess of it.

 

Bandaged hands run over the still intact curve of Kageyama’s naked collarbone, takes mental note for next time, and the soft protest of broken fingers is like an alarm that should ring them both out, but Kageyama biting down on the white and mint jersey stuffed into his mouth isn’t a _no_ , the soft desperate grind of his hip isn’t a _stop_.

 

Oikawa presses heavy palms down on Kageyama’s chest, feels the stutter of breath tight in the lungs, watches the blood ooze slowly around fresh stitches running ragged across the shoulder. “You can do better than that, Tobio,” and he yanks the fabric from Kageyama’s mouth; the rough movement sets Kageyama’s nose bleeding again, and Oikawa smears two fingers through the red flooding Kageyama’s upper lip before slipping them into his mouth, deep enough that Kageyama makes a small choked noise, and it might be just be a moan around the salt on his tongue, before saliva floods his mouth and he tries not to gag around blood and skin.

 

“It’s always till the last man standing, Tobio,” and Oikawa smiles thinly in the dark.

 

 


End file.
